


One-Sided

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder.  Krycek.  Car.  Gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-Sided

He's never had a lot of respect from government cars.  They run to  
dark-coloured mid-size sedans, and as a rule they steer like cows.    
Good for surveillance, middling for tails, pathetic for undercover at  
street level, and utterly the second-least sexy things on earth.  The  
least being the smoker of a dark, rainy morning.  That's one to make  
your balls crawl right back up inside your body and stay there  
cowering forever.

At the moment, he'll settle for the cancerman's absence, but he'd like  
it if, just as a bonus, Mulder's G-car weren't mashed against his face  
either.  Nor Mulder's whole weight on top of him, pinning the severed  
shoulder down so he can't even struggle without making pain-spots  
shimmer in front of his eyes.  Mulder's stilted New England accent  
grates on his ears from a distance of six inches, and Krycek's still  
trying to figure out how he lost control of this situation.  And why  
he has to get bent over the car's hood at quite this angle.  

And why it has to be happening on the shoulder of a major highway at  
two a.m. with at least half a dozen semis sweeping by them every five  
minutes.  Even given that they're on the ditch-ward side of the car,  
Mulder has to know what this looks like, and you'd think his usual  
bashfulness would kick in or something.

"What would you think if I told you I was going to handcuff you to the  
door and let you run beside all the way back to D.C.?"  Warm, wet  
breath in his ear.  Mulder's going to squish him flat in a minute.    
Faxable thug.  There'll be a copy of him on Scully's desk come  
morning, freshly printed and still a little curly from the paper roll.

"I'd say I'll get loose, unless you make me run backwards."  Jerks his  
head as much as he can to indicate the missing left arm and the  
passenger's door both.

"I was thinking of hooking you to my door."  So hot for a second that  
he imagines Mulder must have licked his ear, which is disturbing on  
any number of levels that ought not be contemplated.

The next semi comes up so fast he isn't expecting it, and for a second  
he's blinded by the wave of light hitting his face.  Gasps as Mulder  
shifts, deliberately grinding the remains of Krycek's left arm into  
the over-waxed navy paint job.  Bostonian laughter while he retches.    
And a particularly fucked-up grind of Mulder's crotch against his ass  
before the bastard finally slides off and lets Krycek slide to his  
knees.  Body-warm metal against his cheek while he rests his head  
against the car and waits for his arm to stop hurting.

Click.  

Gun barrel just behind his ear.  He's wondering at the moment which  
one of them is supposed to be the terrorist, exactly.

Mulder's other hand settles on Krycek's neck, the side opposite the  
gun, and holds him there.  Against the gun, he supposes.  He refuses  
to react to the fingers that keep crawling up into his hair.  There  
are things that've made his skin crawl worse, and he didn't curl up  
and whimper for those either.  His eyes are still closed and the  
nausea is almost gone, and if he just keeps breathing from the base of  
his stomach, he'll be --

\-- well, something.  Probably not OK, but not pissing himself or  
crying like a baby girl either.

"What were you doing at the Johanssens' house, Krycek?"  Just a  
whisper in his ear.  He doesn't think this is about whatever Mulder's  
currently investigating, not really.  The man just likes making him  
bleed on random occasions.

"I don't suppose you'd believe taking a shortcut home?"

. . .

That hurt.  Not the barrel of the gun, but definitely the butt of it,  
and he's not entirely sure that Mulder thumbed the safety back on  
first.  But maybe Mulder'll be satisfied with that much damage, and a  
laid-open cheek isn't the worst damage he's ever come out of one of  
these discussions with.  He's more worried at the moment that he's  
lying on the ground at Mulder's feet, staring up at him and wearing  
what's got to be the most pathetic *I-can't-believe-you-hit-me* look  
in existence.

"Want to try that again?"  Mulder asks.

"Shoot me if you're going to."

. . .

"What?"

"Shoot me if you're going to.  You didn't grab me in Baltimore and  
drag me out to the middle of nowhere to arrest me.  You can't even  
take me in as long as I'm bleeding, if only because Scully'll take  
your hide off.  So shoot me if you're going to.  Otherwise ask the  
question you really want answered or let me go."

And fuck.  But he's dizzy and still sick to his stomach.  His stump  
hurts and he's cold.  And he was close enough to the house Mulder's  
investigating to raise the man's suspicions, but he really was only  
watching, and he's not in any condition to generate a lie interesting  
enough to satisfy Mulder's imagination.

Mulder reaches down a big hand, and for a second Krycek actually  
manages to believe the man's going to help him up.  Right until the  
fingers close on the front of his shirt and just haul him staggering  
to upright, and push him back so he's leaning over the car again.    
Still staring up at Mulder.

"What did they send you to stop me from finding?"

"Nothing."

"Why did you kill my father?"

"I didn't."

Mulder steps in against him, and suddenly there's a thigh pressed up  
between his legs, threatening his balls with a more-than-slight  
pressure.

"Why did you let them take Scully?"

"Long story."

"What was it like fucking Marita Covarrubias?"

"Vaguely slimy."  

The pressure against his crotch increases.  He keeps breathing as  
deeply as he can to swallow the sick feeling crawling up towards his  
throat.

Mulder bends over him, puts a hand on either side of his head.  "What  
were you doing there tonight?"

"Watching."  He's going to be really sick in a second.  Mulder's so  
close to him that his face is starting to blur and double, and Krycek  
can't decide whether it's just hard to focus this close up or whether  
he's well and truly concussed from that last smack upside the head.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Thought so."

He has a second to go truly cross-eyed before Mulder's mouth closes on  
his.  Cold skin, which isn't surprising considering that he's going to  
freeze to death himself in a second, warm wet mouth that's open on him  
and pushing his own lips open.  Tongue in his mouth.

Somewhere close to his head, there's still that gun to worry about; if  
he twists, he's got a better-than-even chance of taking a blow, or a  
shot, in the head.  Besides, there's nothing Mulder would like better  
than to have him freak.  And this isn't so really awful, not even  
painful, and all he has to do is keep breathing until Mulder gives up  
on the thing (*kiss kiss kiss kisskisskisskisskiss*) and switches to  
the next tactic.

Except that it doesn't break off as sharply as he would have expected.    
Just eases and ends with the other man's lips resting against his.    
Too close and too dark to tell whether Mulder's eyes are closed, but  
he'd give money that they are.  Heavy on him.  And hard.

Fuck.  

Another long moment while Mulder pulls back just far enough for both  
of their eyes to focus and stares down at him.  Shifts a little  
against Krycek's hip and presses that threatening leg closer in.    
Stops.

The hand that replaces the leg is almost brisk, like a frisking  
movement.  Just cups him for a second and lets go.  And pushes off the  
hood, lifting Mulder away, finally, to stand on the lip of the ditch  
with his gun dangling loose from one hand.

"What do you want Krycek?"

"I don't know.  Shoot me or rape me or let me go or tell me what you  
want, but get it over with."  *Before I puke on your shoes.* He's  
bleeding now, really bleeding, down the side of his face, and the  
world's gone disturbingly blurry.

There's a long breath while he gets to contemplate life with his  
brains splattered across the car and pavement.  Thinking that next  
time maybe he will give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him  
freak.  Or whatever.  If that's even what Mulder wants, because he's  
frankly not so sure anymore.

Then once more into the breach with a hand on his collar and a gun at  
the back of his skull.  Away from the highway and down into the long,  
dead grass of the ditch.  Mulder forces him to his knees in front of a  
traffic sign and the next semi's lights wash over them both.  Some  
trucker's going to have the rest of the night to contemplate this  
particular vision of Krycek on his knees like some teenaged rentboy,  
and said trucker's still going to be having the less bizarre evening.  

The gun stays at the back of his skull, which is more than enough to  
keep him still while Mulder closes one cuff on Krycek's wrist, passes  
the chain around the sign's post, and closes the other cuff on the  
same wrist, thereby answering the question of how, exactly, you chain  
up a one-armed man.

With his head down while Mulder decides what to do with him.  The next  
semi driver's going to have a perfect execution-style silhouette  
instead of some kind of queer fantasy haunting him.  If he even sees.    
Krycek drove across the country in thirty-eight hours, once, and by  
the time he hit the east coast you could have sacrificed livestock in  
the passenger's seat and he wouldn't have cared.

And in fact no one does stop, even though they get drowned in halogen  
six more times.  Insignificant in the dark.  Or else it looks official  
enough that no one's worrying.  G-man with G-car takes care of G-  
murder at two-thirty in the morning, will bury the body properly when  
the time comes.

When Mulder decides to pull that goddamned trigger.  When.


End file.
